


This Boot Is Made for Rocking

by Marks



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-21
Updated: 2007-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marks/pseuds/Marks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actually the rocker boot does not, in fact, rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Boot Is Made for Rocking

**Author's Note:**

> So Pete Wentz broke two bones in his foot a few weeks back. That plus my weakness for hurt/comfort made this fic. This takes place during FOB's current tour, but I sent Ashlee home for plot purposes (actually, when I started writing this, I hadn't realized she was still along with them after their Halloween show, so please roll with it). This isn't a Pete breaks up with his girlfriend for Patrick fic, though, in case you're expecting that.

_hobbling around on a walking cast is bad for the ego but has done wonders for the writing._

*

_havent slept in days.  
think i am starting to crack._

*

The rumble of the bus should be lulling him to sleep. Should be, this is key, but this is Pete Wentz and the rules of sleep or anything else need not apply.

Joe is already snoring in his bunk and they're eerily without company for once, so Pete only has Hemingway, the bus driver, and technology for company. Drivers never really want to be friends with the band, so that's out, and the dog still doesn't know how to talk. Yet. It's coming soon; hey, if Astro could tell Rorge how much he ruvved him, then Hemmy should at least be able to answer when Pete asks him how sandpaper feels. Because, seriously, that would be awesome.

Hemmy snorts and shifts on Pete's thigh, like he knows what Pete's thinking and his doggy answer is _as if_.

"You'll see," Pete whispers and smiles.

But anyway, the lounge is dead silent, and his foot hurts, and the Internet isn't much of a painkiller (neither, in fact, are the painkillers), and he's tired. Stupid tired. He breaks out the iPhone.

_sing me to sleep sing me to sleep im tired and i want to go to bed_

The text message is gone and sent almost before Pete realizes he's tapped it out. Whatever, Patrick is used to his weirdness now, his random lyrics that aren't even his, his random _everything_. That's what happens when you've known someone almost a decade. Besides, it's three in the morning and Patrick always sleeps like a rock, even when squished into the corner of a van surrounded by equipment and other dudes. The kid was diagnosed with a case of lazy once, for fuck's sake.

So Pete is kind of surprised when his phone rings and interrupts his wave of nostalgia, the Akon ringtone filling up the quiet.

"Hey, man," he says, keeping his voice carefully light, though there's a ragged quality to it that Pete can't control. "What are you doing up?"

"Providing on-demand lullaby service, I think," Patrick replies. He doesn't sound annoyed. That's lucky; Patrick's temper ebbs more often than it flows these days, but bothering him at work is a bulletpoint no-no, and when that Patrick anger does flow it's enough to kill a whole army of pursuing Egyptians.

Pete shifts on the lounge sofa, tugging at a blanket hanging over the back until it's covering his legs. Hemmy whuffles indignantly and hops down. "Did I interrupt anything important?"

"Nah, just had a melody I had to get down. But I'm good now."

"Good," Pete says. There's a lump in his throat that has no explanation, but it's threatening to dissolve. He swallows hard. "I'm glad you called."

"Like I said, it's Stump-on-Demand. Any requests?"

"You." Pete pulls the blanket up to his chin. "Anything you're willing to give."

They've had a hundred variations on this conversation, a thousand, a _millionbillion_. Patrick still laughs, and even with the insomnia and the months on the road and the foot broken by Pete's own idiocy, a little bit of warmth curls in Pete's chest. And Pete means what he says, of course he does and Patrick has to know that, but he doesn't mind it being treated like a joke because of that sound.

Patrick starts with "I Can't Find," follows up with "Farewell and Goodnight," before melting into "Golden Slumbers." His voice is low, quiet because of the late hour and possibly Andy. Patrick in Pete's ear is warm and sweet like the honey bees are no longer making and by the time Patrick reaches the chorus to "Just Like Heaven," Pete's eyelids are drooping and it does feel just like.

_you, soft and only, you, lost and lonely, you..._

*

Pete wakes up to a stiff neck and "La La" playing at top volume, but the fact is he's happy, which he never is when he's jolted out of sleep. But, like, he _woke up_ as in sleeping for more than fifteen minutes. That's basically a miracle.

Oh, but _you make me wanna_ , right. The phone is still close to Pete's head -- another miracle that it didn't crash to the bus floor and crack the screen. Probably Pete has used up all his miracles for at least a month.

"Morning, baby," Pete yawns when he answers. His jaw cracks.

"Hiiii," Ashlee coos back, voice soft and pretty. "It's one in the afternoon where you are, you know." That explains the ridiculous amount of sunshine filtering through the curtains. Only the bunks have any chance of blocking out light any hour of the day. The lounge isn't made for that.

Pete yawns again. "On California time. How is it there?"

"On Pete time, you mean. Sunny. Boring. Vapid. Same as always."

"You could come out with us again," he suggests. There's a lot to be said about a girlfriend who's willing to wear a Teletubby costume for Halloween. Pete appreciates that she understands his ideas for dress-up games are different from most guys. She gets him in a way that most people in the world won't ever.

Ashlee sighs into the phone, one of regret not annoyance. He sighs back. "I can't, Pete," she says, and Pete knows that's factually true but since when have facts mattered to him? "I'm in the studio for the next month. Think about it, though! Like, if I'm doing this now I won't be when you're back home, right?"

It's still weird when people refer to Los Angeles as Pete's home. Again with the facts not mattering.

"Right," he agrees. "How's that going anyway?"

Ashlee giggles. "I love it. I love singing, being in the studio. I know that I'm not..." She pauses. "Well. I think -- hope -- it'll change things for me. Speaking _of_."

Pete grins. He already knows what's coming.

"Did you change that fucking ringtone yet?"

Truth? Pete mostly keeps it because it gets Ashlee cursing, and that's amazing. "It's my favorite song!"

"You're such a goddamn liar, Pete Wentz." But she's smiling, too; Pete can hear it through the phone. "So, I woke you up, huh?"

See, the thing with Ashlee is she's perceptive. The girl is cagey, Pete loves that about her, how people in the outside world think she's vapid and superficial because that's what she wants them to believe. It's weird how some plants grow so much better when left in the shade of a bigger, more famous tree. And she makes it a point to keep as up-to-date with him as she can, even if they're not talking every two minutes. Like for example, most people in Pete's life selectively ignore his midnight blog ramblings, but Ashlee flat-out refuses to play along with Pete's public compartmentalizing. It's endearing that she has him bookmarked all over, but also leaves him feeling weirdly exposed, especially considering how exposed in all senses Pete has been.

"Patrick," he tells her by way of explanation.

"Of course." Yup, still smiling. Pete really fucking loves her a whole lot. "Speaking of Patrick, I got our cards laminated."

Pete laughs, delighted at Ashlee's ridiculousness. "So sealed with plastic?"

"And a kiss," Ashlee says. "My lipstick is honestly on the back of yours. Mine changed, though. I swapped out Zac Efron --"

"Good. That dude looks like he's had his whole face laminated."

"-- for Angelina Jolie. I mean, if you get your gay exception, then so do I. And, like, Angelina is pretty much a necessity for any young woman reexamining her sexuality."

"Is that what you're doing?"

Ashlee giggles. "Maybe, who knows? Anyway, it's laminated now. It's _permanent_. I'll give you yours the next time I see you."

"I can't believe you're real sometimes," Pete says fondly.

"Most of me is." Another giggle. Fucking endearing. "I was just checking in. I'm glad you slept. Call me tonight?"

They say goodbye to each other for almost ten minutes, doubling their time on the phone. Pete will never really get over how people do that, even when it's him. But, yeah, goodbyes are hard no matter the circumstance. That's why everyone hates them.

He's still staring into space with a faraway look and a lingering little smile, a mixed result of last night and today, when Hemingway wanders into the lounge, interested in taking up his place on the couch again or maybe breakfast or maybe eating Pete's iPhone. Seriously, the talking dog angle deserves more thought. Pete pats the couch and Hemmy hops up, resting his drooly dog head on Pete's plaster-insulated industrial goth boot. They stare at each other; Pete blinks first. Damn, the dog is good at that game.

So. The cards are laminated now. Permanent, like Ashlee said. Those things...well, Pete figures most couples have some variation on that conversation, the name-five-what-if-the-opportunity-presented-itself exceptions. He'd thought Ashlee was kidding when she suggested cards, but when she has an idea it usually turns into a production. They have that in common. That's how things like birthday proms and imprint labels are born. Anyway, Pete had written some bullshit answers for his first draft, wanting to play along but not.

And Ashlee -- she had called him on it right away. She _gets_ him: gets him well enough that she'd crossed out "Winona Ryder circa 1989" and had written in "Patrick Stump" in swirly pink script. With a smiley face. And glitter, just so Pete had known she was serious.

 _Pete_ , she'd told him, hands on hips, _when we started dating,_ Jessica _was worried about you and Patrick. You're not, like, subtle._

Subtle, no, but occasionally realistic. Patrick is his best friend in the world, and Pete is happy with that. It's not a _just_ that; it's an _all_ that; it's a _holy God, I am the luckiest Pete in the whole world_ that. But he'd let Ashlee leave it anyway. Pete doesn't know if she'd expected protest or what, but it didn't even matter. The point of exception lists -- even when laminated -- is impossibility.

*

That night, right after the four of them meet up at Andy's riser for the high-five, Patrick glances down at Pete's foot and back up at his face before flashing him a thumbs-up. Awesome, Pete is Patrick-approved. He probably should be pissed at the scrutiny, but he can't work himself up over it, especially because Patrick is Pete-approved all over. Laminated and sealed with a bubblegum popstar's kiss.

Pete runs back down the riser and gets into place, and _plays_. Well, at least as well as he ever plays.

And they're really on. Joe is a maniac, of course, running and spinning all around, yelling, spitting, and always twirling, twirling towards freedom. Trohman is a guitar god who paid for the stage up front, that's how much he owns. Andy plays his tiny tattooed heart out, and every time Pete looks back, he's in the middle of riffs that should require at least four hands. The pyrotechnics exploding don't faze him at all. Andy probably taught himself how to shoot ice out of his drumsticks, he's just that cool.

Patrick is Patrick. He _rules_ , easy as that, strutting everywhere when he isn't singing, hitting notes that still send shivers down Pete's spine, more effective than any bucket of cold water.

He looks at Pete a lot, even more than usual. They play at each other, to each other. Patrick gives Pete his throat during "Mr. Brightside," offers his shoulder for Pete's head later, leans back when Pete leans against him, leaving hearts and wrists intact, wasting time dreaming of him.

A fucking godsend, name written in impossible pink swirly letters. Pete rides the stage's moving catwalk, suppressing a wince with every other step, and remembers that he's so in love with his band. He runs back to the front of the stage.

"Yo!" Pete announces, grabbing his mic. "If any of you little assholes think jumping off a speaker about fifty times your height is cool..." He pauses. "It is. It's really fucking cool. But you also might break your foot if you're an idiot like I am, and wind up in a cast, and you know what? The name is misleading. Say it with me, kids: A rocker boot does not rock."

The crowd laughs and echoes him. Patrick just laughs, hand covering his microphone to muffle the sound. Pete is so gonna put this shit on a t-shirt.

"A rocker boot doesn't rock -- but you all do. Want to hear us do one more?"

And they do, they so do, everyone does, and not pain or exhaustion or his neverending inner monologue can ruin it.

*

There are reporters to talk to after, then so many autographs to sign and spinning with Dan and Travis at some club, but Pete guesses the band is feeling the vibe as much as Pete is because Joe and Patrick tag along to watch him. Even Andy, who won't be caught dead in anything he's deemed a "den of hedonism" unless he's playing a gig there, agrees to meet up for a late-night breakfast run. One of the genius things about playing big cities is the all-night diner.

Patrick climbs into the DJ booth at quarter after twelve and tugs on Pete's sleeve. The crowd below shrieks its approval and Pete can see flashbulbs go off as the clubgoers whip out their digicams. Those will be on Buzznet within the hour, but what else is new?

Pete flashes Patrick his brightest real smile and starts playing some new mash-up of John Lennon's "Beautiful Boy" and "Grand Theft Autumn." (Where is _your_ beautiful boy tonight?) It makes Patrick grin too.

"How's your leg?" Patrick asks, glancing down. Pete has been on his feet for about eleven thousand hours at this point.

"I'm leaning heavily to the right side," Pete says, grooving to Patrick's and Lennon's voices layered on top of each other, speaking into Patrick's ear so he can be heard over the music. "It's cool, you worry too much."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Actually, I want some damned pancakes and you said you'd pay, and I want to make sure you're still able to walk," he shouts, because Pete is still busy molesting the side of his face. He sounds pretty fucking jovial, though. "Because I'm not above stealing your wallet."

"Need to dig into my girlpants for that, Pattycakes." Just one kiss, right below Patrick's ear is innocent enough.

But Patrick turns his head too fast and Pete gets the corner of his mouth. Flashbulbs. Patrick's eyes are too bright for total sobriety and the little bit of hair that sticks out under the brim of his fedora is plastered to his forehead by sweat. "Think I wouldn't?"

Pete is suddenly overtaken by a desperate waffle craving, a syrup-drenched one complete with melted butter. "Dan switches with me in ten minutes. I'll be done then, I promise," he says, feeling like he's placating his pissy, easily angered lead singer again like he used to years ago. "Good enough?"

"I can wait that," Patrick says with a thoughtful headtilt and a smirk because he's not that quick-to-anger anymore. Everything about Patrick now is a slow burn. "But don't push it, Wentz, or my hands in your girlpants."

Waffles and whipped cream and strawberries and a strong, strong cup of coffee that will temporarily put Pete back in the proper headspace. He thinks about his earlier conversation with Ashlee, of the name taking up slot number one on Pete's cardstock list, and maybe going for eleven more minutes more, twelve, just to see how serious Patrick is about his threat. He watches as Patrick weaves back into the crowd and starts dancing with Joe and one of the girls from Crush, and he seems so drunkenly pleased with himself that Pete couldn't possibly disappoint him.

A promise is a promise, Pete tells himself, and trades with Dan after exactly ten minutes. Then they get to have breakfast at one in the morning. Joe and Andy play Paper Football at the table, Pete gets his waffles, and Patrick eats half his pancakes before falling asleep on Pete's shoulder.

"That guy can still sleep anywhere," Joe says, sounding impressed as he flicks the paper triangle into Andy's end zone.

"Yeah, I'm totally jealous," Pete says. He rolls his shoulder and tries to sound annoyed, but knows there's nothing but fondness in his voice as Patrick drools on him and curls closer. Fucking endearing.

*

Joe and Andy somehow manage to get Patrick into an upright position, their arms wrapped around either side of him so he can sleepwalk back the buses (no hotel that night, they're leaving for the next venue at some ungodly hour), only when they get there Patrick buries his face into Joe's neck and won't let go. Andy manages to pull him away, only for Patrick to try stomping on Andy's flip-flopped foot and then clinging to Pete instead. Pete manages to stay balanced only through sheer force of will, though he grits his teeth when he puts pressure on his left foot.

"Guess he really liked the pancakes," Joe says.

"Or the booze," Pete replies, glad for Andy's quick reflexes. Though, okay, having half the band in matching rocker boots would be pretty hysterical, but bad idea for the bass pedals. Maybe he'll trip Joe on purpose. Patrick grumbles wordlessly like he's vetoing Pete's bad ideas in his _sleep_. There are downsides to living in someone else's head. "We can keep him on our bus for the night. I think he's paper trained and Hemmy needs friends anyway."

Andy shrugs and looks pretty unconcerned for someone whose toes had been in mortal peril moments before. "Just don't forget to walk him in the morning."

Joe laughs. "What, without a leash? He might run away!"

"And then Fall Out Boy would be forced to continue as a really shitty three-person instrumental combo," Pete says. "Imagine that? Teenage girls everywhere would rend their garments. The offices of Tiger Beat would be ruined."

"Total anarchy," Andy says with a dreamy smirk. Pete shakes his head; even after all these years, Andy can still be a scary dude when he wants to be. Then Viva la Revolución Andy is gone, replaced by the goofy normal version. He waves and wanders off toward Patrick's and his bus. "Later, gators."

Pete and Joe manage to maneuver Patrick onto the bus and into the back, though Pete doesn't so much maneuver as point Joe in a general direction. He feels lame and feeble not being able to carry his best friend's weight. Luckily, they're able to get Patrick to move his own feet in a zombie shuffle again, so it's only a matter of taking off his shoes and throwing a blanket on top of him. Though Patrick does manage one death threat as his sneakers are separated from his feet. Seriously, he cares way too much about shoes. It's weird.

Joe gets the fuck out of there right after that, saying that doing the heavy lifting exempts him from baby-sitting duty, which Pete finds fair enough. Besides, it's not like Pete has ever had any issue watching over Patrick. There are reasons someone up there put someone like Pete down here.

He steals Patrick's hat and glasses, and bats away the resulting grabby hands, getting revenge when Hemmy decides Patrick's shins are a terrific resting spot. Then he settles onto the bed next to Patrick, wincing as he drags his foot up to elevate it. The painkillers have completely worn off so the constant dull pain around his foot and ankle has intensified. He is feeling the full weight of the night pressing down on him and his main source of non-pharmaceutical pain relief is snoring. Because of Patrick the lights are all off, so it's Pete and his existential angst alone in the dark.

Pete sighs, not really liking the direction his head is taking. He digs into his jeans and pulls out his phone.

"Oh my God, shouldn't you at least be _trying_ to sleep?" Ashlee says after a ring and a half.

Pete raises his eyebrows. "That's not a very polite way to answer your phone."

"Pete, since when have you been concerned about phone etiquette?" Ashlee asks, though her tone is already more sympathetic. "It's, like, almost three there."

"You told me to call you after the show. It's after."

"Well, duh! Clips from tonight are already hitting YouTube. You guys must have really killed." Ashlee sounds happy for him, but she still clucks her tongue. "But I also think you should take better care of yourself and you need to rest more. You've got whole parts of yourself trying to put themselves together again."

Like Pete hasn't been dealing with that his whole life.

"We're at the end of the day," Pete assures her. "I'm too far from my Vicodin, but I'm stuffed full of breakfast foods and I'm baby-sitting a drunken superstar."

"Ah," Ashlee says, and it's hard to tell what that means from one syllable. "Then I know you'll be all right. Is he all pink and sparkly?"

"Yeah, always, plus rainbows. No smiley faces, though. More cranky and cover-stealing."

Then Patrick does the thing where he knows people are talking about him even in his sleep again and pokes Pete in the hip.

"Ow! Little fucker."

Patrick's eyes flutter open and his eyebrows draw tightly together in confusion. "Pete?" he asks in a sleepy voice. "Why are you on my bus?"

"Go, go," Ashlee urges in his ear. "I know an emergency when I hear one. No one wants a cranky lead singer. Except you, but that's my attempt at double entendre!"

Pete groans, but he's smiling. "Pretty singular there, baby. I'll talk to you tomorrow." They hang up as Patrick struggles to pull himself upright and dislodge a deadweight bulldog from his legs. Hemmy whimpers but climbs down and falls asleep again in his doggy bed in the corner.

"This is not my bus," Patrick concludes.

"This is not your beautiful house," Pete agrees. "This is not your beautiful wife."

Patrick yawns and rubs his eyes. "You sure? Because you're wearing an awful lot of eyeliner."

Pete smiles, faintly.

"No, seriously, why am I on your bus? Are you kidnapping me?"

"I did that when you were still too young to cross state lines, tiger," Pete says. "You were clinging to all your bandmates who don't share a bus with you, so it was easier to take you back here. Is your head okay?"

"Yeah, fine. A little fuzzy, but I didn't drink that much... guess I was more tired than I thought. My mouth tastes like sugar."

"You can go back to sleep, it's cool." Pete gestures at his iPhone. "I can occupy myself."

Patrick is squinting at him in the dark and the corners of his mouth are turned down. Pete knows this look and it's not always bad, only one that Patrick gets when he's _determined_. Pete doesn't know if he can deal with determined Patrick right now.

"Hey, here's a great idea," Patrick says and, oh, the sarcasm is already dripping. "Why don't you try going to sleep, too?"

"Not really tired. Strike that. Not tired at _all_." Pete begins to type out a blog entry, but Patrick snatches the phone from Pete and now it's Pete's turn to make grabby hands. That's just not right. Patrick doesn't do anything drastic with the iPhone, though, like throw it across the bus or feed it to Hemingway, only twists around to drop it on top of his hat. Pete could easily grab it back or go for his laptop, but he doesn't really feel like getting punched in the face or whatever bright idea Patrick comes up with next.

Instead, he sighs but refuses to settle down. He stares at Patrick until Patrick's face softens, goes back to normal.

"Pete, I--" Patrick twists the blanket in his hands. "I mean, I know that you and sleep have never been best friends--"

"That's you," Pete interrupts.

Patrick smiles. "Yeah, and Ashlee and Hemmy, I know. But the insomnia...it's been pretty bad lately, right? Worse than usual? So I want to help."

"You do," Pete says, feeling every bit of annoyance melt out of his body. Why does Patrick have to hit all of his soft spots every single time? He slides down the bed, rolls onto his side with effort, and props his head up on his hand.

"No!" Patrick insists, frustrated and adorable. "I mean, really help. You're hurt and I don't want you to-- I can sing to you again or we can, I don't know, write you a lullaby or whatever."

Pete blinks. That does sound awesome, they should totally write a lullaby together, but Patrick is acting weird. He has been for hours now, Pete realizes, with the slight come-ons and cuddling and clinging. Not that Pete is complaining, but Pete being Pete, he wants Patrick to get that he doesn't deserve Patrick's attention.

"Seriously, Patrick, it's okay. I'm used to being uncomfortable," Pete says, trying to sound reassuring and only managing desperate. "My foot is broken temporarily, my sleep is broken permanently, and short of a thousand orgasms, I don't think anything--"

"I can do that," Patrick interrupts.

"Wait, what?" Pete shoots back, trying not to let his eyes bug out of his head.

"I mean, if you wanted me to. Well, not _a thousand_. But give you. Or do. Whatever." Patrick is twisting Pete's blanket harder. It's a miracle it hasn't torn yet.

Pete laughs brokenly. "There's got to be a camera in here. Fuck, is this for MTV or something? Because I didn't exactly agree to a reality show yet, and--"

"God, you're an idiot," Patrick says. Then he rolls a little and kisses Pete, full on the mouth for nine, ten seconds. Pete doesn't move. Seriously, Pete thinks that even his involuntary muscles stop from shock. Then anger floods him, and he shoves Patrick and almost falls off the bed. Patrick grabs his arm to stop him, and it's only Pete's lack of leg mobility that stops him from kicking Patrick's shin and tearing the hell out of there.

Instead, he glares. Pete Wentz anger ratcheted up to eleven.

"If this is some kind pity thing, you can forget it," Pete says through gritted teeth. He sounds strangely monotone. Pete has had people do the pity thing with him before and it never feels great, but with Patrick it's like someone charged into the back of the bus and stomped on Pete's chest with a steel-toed boot. "I have a girlfriend and _some_ control over my dick, thanks. I'm not an idiot, Patrick. The only thing gimpy about me is my leg."

"Fucking _impossible_ ," Patrick sighs. He reaches into his back pocket and digs through his wallet, slaps a crumpled piece of paper into Pete's palm.

"What's this?" Pete asks.

"Did you forget how to read, dumbass?"

Pete squints in the dark and unfolds the paper. It's actually not paper, but cardboard the size of a business card that's worn soft around the edges and old, like way too old for Patrick's most recent girlfriend -- this is _Anna_ old. And it has Pete's name right on the top, the middle names and the III and all. There's nothing crossed out, no pink, no sparkles, no smileys, just his own name in the number one spot written in Patrick's messy scrawl, the same ink as the numbers that run down the side. Even in the dim bus light Pete can tell that the other names are from other pens, and though it occurs to him that Patrick should go for Zooey Deschanel already unless she's married or a Scientologist or something, mostly he's coming up blank.

Like.

It isn't _laminated_. It's _old_. Patrick _carries it around with him_. And that's his _name_.

"So, yeah," Patrick says, "if that's what you really need, I can. I want. It's fine. I show this to everyone that I'm...I mean, Ashlee emailed me. So I know." Patrick blushes so hard that it's visible in the dark and that would be fascinating except Pete can only think in exclamation points.

Patrick grabs Pete's hand, runs his thumb over Pete's fingers. "Uh," he says and laughs, "I think this is the point where you do something."

Pete's something is a strangled noise and wide, wide eyes. See, okay, so _okay_ , Pete has only wanted Patrick since the beginning of time, but that's windmill chasing and Pete Wentz is no Don Quixote. Only here it is, nudged along by his Dulcinea no less, and Pete can't believe it. Maybe he took a fuckton of Vicodin and this is lucid dreaming. Patrick sighs heavily, mutters "Do I have to do everything around here?" and shoves Pete onto his back again.

Then he _straddles Pete's legs_. The exclamation points multiply and Pete makes another choked sound.

Patrick leans over until their faces are close together. If he hadn't cut his hair, the ends would have been tickling Pete's face, that's how close they are. "If you don't want this, if Ashlee was on the wrong track, I can stop," Patrick says, and there's no tease in his voice, just a statement of fact. He'll stop if Pete wants to, easy as that and they'll go back to being friends, no harm no foul. Pete knows Patrick means that.

Pete curls both of his hands around Patrick's hips and digs his fingertips in, keeping him in place. "Don't stop," he says.

Patrick doesn't stop. He kisses Pete again and this time Pete is ready for him, his head tilted up. The surreality of Patrick kissing him hasn't dissipated even a little, but they don't call Pete Wentz a makeout king for nothing. He slides his hand up Patrick's back and splays his fingers against the back of his neck, while Patrick puts one palm flat against the pillow next to Pete's head. And then he opens his mouth a little, pushes his tongue into Pete's mouth and, oh, hey, maybe it's Patrick that should be the makeout king because the tip of his tongue against Pete's is like an electric current that runs the entire length of Pete's body and makes his good leg jerk once. Short circuit. Patrick grins into the kiss.

"How long have you had that thing? The card?" Pete asks, and groans as Patrick sucks on his bottom lip.

"Since the beginning of time," Patrick replies. He licks along Pete's jawline, the shell of his ear, bites down on Pete's throat. Pete tilts his head back further, offering Patrick more and more. "Thought it was impossible, y'know?"

" _Yeah_ ," Pete breathes, half in answer because he _knows_ , half because Patrick is sliding down his body, crawling between his legs.

Patrick pushes up Pete's t-shirt, traces the ink outline of the bartskull with his tongue, which really shouldn't be as hot as it is, but Patrick never takes his eyes off Pete's face as he does it, and Patrick Stump? Really good with his tongue. Pete is starting to think that Ashlee didn't use anywhere enough glitter.

Then Patrick rubs Pete's thigh and says casually, "Since we're doing this in the interest of making you feel better, how about I suck your cock?" And licks his lips. _Licks them_. "Because I really fucking want to." Patrick _Motherfucking_ Stump, ladies and gentlemen.

Pete nods and struggles onto his elbows, and wonders how to go about convincing Patrick to record himself saying 'cock' and 'fuck' and every dirty thought that's ever crossed Pete's mind. Then Patrick's intense stare is back as he pops the button on Pete's jeans and eases down the zipper, pulls out Pete's dick and gives it a thoughtful stroke; Pete moans and revises recording to videotaping because there's no _way_ Pete wants to go without the visual.

So okay, Pete is a makeout king, but he's also always been a little iffy about anything below the waist, even the receiving because it's always seemed unfair to take when he can't give back. Never let it be said that Pete has no sense of fair play. But he'd also failed to take Patrick into account when he made up these rules of gay for himself. Because impossibility.

As it turns out when it comes to Patrick, the rules don't apply. They don't apply at all. Like Pete hadn't known this already.

He's reminded of this fact the second Patrick's lips wrap around the head of his cock and Pete thrusts up so hard and fast that he almost pulls something. Patrick forcefully shoves his hips back down onto the bed.

"Relax," Patrick orders, only it's not so much of an order as hypnotic suggestion where Pete wants to do everything he says. Especially if that everything involves Pete returning the favor in the near future. "It kind of defeats the purpose if you hurt yourself now."

Pete nods and smiles encouragingly like, _hey, best friend, I promise to let you do your cocksucking your way especially if you're going to drag your tongue all the way up like that_. Patrick hooks his fingers into the waistband of Pete's pants and pulls them down past his hips, limiting Pete's movement. Pete gives a breathy little laugh because this is exactly what Patrick had threatened before and now he has his hands in Pete's girlpants.

"Fuck, _Patrick_ ," he mumbles as Patrick sucks him down, _all_ the way down, and wonders when Patrick found the time to go to dicksucking school. Pete moves restlessly as he tries not to fuck Patrick's red red mouth, biting on his hand, sucking on his own fingers, thrashing his head from side to side. Patrick swallows around him, finds his rhythm and breaks it again so he can lick Pete like a lollipop, swirl his tongue around the head, and it's the sweetest torture Pete has ever had.

He comes hard when Patrick's hands wander from Pete's hips to under his ass, and even though Pete grabs Patrick's shoulder and tugs his hair trying to warn, Patrick keeps on going and sucks Pete so fast and perfect that Pete thinks his brain goes along with his orgasm.

It takes Pete a few minutes to come back to himself, and that's perfectly understandable because he had to rebuild his brain, but when he can think again he sees that Patrick is sort of humping the mattress and Pete's leg, face down and rubbing the front of his pants.

"Let me see," Pete blurts, his mouth before his brain because that's the way it always is, but Patrick looks at him with his smile slow and wide. "Please," he adds.

Patrick crawls up to straddle Pete's waist again and gets his dick out, and as much as Pete has protested his whole life that he doesn't like the way cocks look, can't even understand why girls like them, he can't look _away_. Patrick lazily jacking himself over Pete has to be one of the hottest things to exist in the whole of human history, especially because he's making noises that sound like half-finished song fragments.

"Beautiful," Pete says. "Didn't ever think I'd get to see this. I didn't even let myself think it, Patrick."

Patrick licks his palm and starts going even faster. "Better thank your girlfriend then."

"Oh, believe me, I am." Pete covers the blur of Patrick's hand with his own, and Patrick moans and comes all over Pete's stomach. It should be gross, but it's the polar opposite of that. But then again, it's Patrick.

Pete pulls his t-shirt over his head to mop up the mess and flings it aside just as Patrick flops down next to him, boneless and sleepy again. Pete, to his surprise, knows how Patrick feels.

"So, like, the thousand orgasm thing? We can stretch that out over time," Patrick mutters as he tucks himself into Pete's shoulder, voice rough and tired. And _holy shit_ Pete is making Patrick sing after the next round of oral sex because it makes his angel voice downright criminal. "Plus, nakedness. There should be more nakedness. That's key."

Pete nods a lot. "Yeah, definitely nakedness. A whole lot more." He reaches behind him to grab his iPhone, making Patrick frown.

"Aren't we going to sleep?" Patrick asks.

"I am," Pete replies and he means it, feels like he can even without the painkillers. Maybe he really is on the mend. "But I have one thing to do first."

Patrick nods a little, already halfway to sleep.

_baby you were right about the card_  
queen of hearts  
will never doubt you again 

Ashlee's reply comes within a minute: _a woman always knows!!!!!_

_silly me_

"Can't wait till you get that stupid cast off," Patrick mumbles.

Ashlee texts again: _just think of all you can do once the rocker boot comes off! :) :) :)_

"Riding me," Patrick continues. "I definitely want you to ride me. Also, you should fuck me backstage before a show."

One more from Ashlee: _i forgot to mention when we talked before? i met angelina jolie at a premiere a few days ago and we really hit it off. in case you wanted more info about my edit. do you think she and brad have exceptions 2? :) :) :)_

"Jesus, I love you," Pete tells Patrick.

_hot make sure to tape it so i can watch  
love you lots_

_luv u 2, baby,_ Ashlee texts back. _go 2 sleep 4 me?_

 _yeah i am,_ Pete sends back. _cross out the other exceptions tho dont need anything else._

He rolls onto his side and Patrick curls around him like a question mark, one arm across Pete's chest, and they fall asleep just like that.

Pete wakes up with a lullaby already written.


End file.
